


Whatever Gets You Through the Night

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: South Park
Genre: Family, Friendship, High School, Illustrated, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Sex, includes commentfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kenny thinks he knows everything, which is impossible; for one thing, he doesn't know that Craig has guilt pangs about what he does with Clyde because he loves Clyde's parents more than he loves his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Gets You Through the Night

When his phone blares out the announcement of an incoming message, jolting him awake, Craig is less than excited to see that it's 2:43 a.m., only an hour or so after he finally fell asleep. He isn't sure whether or not it makes him happy to see the message is from Clyde, but it probably does—until he opens it and is confronted by a photo of Kenny, eyes lidded heavily with something presumably other than drowsiness, judging by the way his tongue is jutting suggestively from between his parted lips.

  


Craig puts the phone down and lets his head sink deeper into his pillow.

"Not happy" gets upgraded to "somewhat annoyed" when the phone buzzes again, just as he's slipping back beneath the surface of consciousness. In the new picture, Kenny has closed his teeth around the tip of his middle finger, lips parted just enough to show a flash of his tongue.

Cool, and fuck you, too, Craig thinks as he closes his eyes once more.

By the time the third picture arrives, the angle tilted so it misses most of Kenny's face in favor of his arched torso, the upper corner of the frame snagging on the curve of his smile, the lower corner just catching his fingers tangled in thick brown hair in his lap, Craig is irritated enough to get out of bed, pull on the clothes he abandoned to the floor earlier, and get in his car. He's half-way to Clyde's when the phone jitters around in the passenger seat. He strongly considers ignoring it, but then caves and reaches for it. It's a text message with an address that Craig recognizes. Another message comes in as he's pulling a U-turn; he powers off the phone without checking it.

His crappy little Focus hatchback fits right in on this side of town and he parks it on the street like it belongs there. As he's walking up the driveway, Craig pockets his phone—then takes it out again. He stops and looks at the blank screen, contemplating whether or not he wants to know how many messages they've sent in the time it took him to get here, and what those messages show.

He runs his fingers through his hair as he presses the power button.

They've only sent two more messages: a text informing him that the "fromt door" is "opn!" and another picture, this one a close-up of a tongue with an arrow, drawn in black marker, pointing back into the open mouth. He can tell from the teeth that the mouth is Clyde's and he has little doubt the arrow is Kenny's handiwork and probably his idea; it's entirely possible Clyde didn't know what Kenny was going to draw and just opened up, wide and unquestioning, when Kenny held up the uncapped Sharpie and said, "Hey, can I?"

Craig stands in the driveway awhile longer. He can't tell whether he wants more to stay or more to go; in the end, he lets the direction he's already facing decide for him.

They made a point of telling him the door is unlocked so, even though he knows which window is Kenny's, he goes up the front steps. Sure enough, the knob turns easily in his hand. He stops inside and, since he's never been through Kenny's front door before, takes a moment to map what he knows of the outside of the house to the interior he's scanning now, then heads for where he thinks Kenny's room should be.

When he gets to it, Craig is so sure he has the right room that he doesn't bother knocking. He turns the knob, which yields readily, as expectantly as the front door did, and walks in.

Kenny is sitting up, knees bent, pillow propped against the wall at his back. He grins when he sees Craig. "Hey, dude."

"Don't." Craig comes to a stop, irritation flaring again now that he's actually here at stupid o'clock in the morning, come at their call like the good dog that he really is not. "Man, don't fucking 'hey, dude' me."

The blankets shift and rustle, and Clyde emerges from them. "Hey." He punctuates it with a small, soft smile. "You came." Another smile, a languid blink.

Craig doesn't smile back. "What were you doing under there? Were you sucking him off?"

"What?" A furrow appears on Clyde's brow as his smile fades. "No. I just fell asleep."

"With his cock in your mouth?" Craig sticks out his tongue, sketches an invisible arrow on it with his fingertip.

Clyde shakes his head. It's Kenny who says, "That was for you, dude."

Then Kenny flashes a grin, curved up more on one side than the other, his eyebrow arching ever so slightly on that side. It's a calculated look; Craig wonders how many hours Kenny has spent practicing it in the mirror. "Unless you came here for a show," Kenny says.

If anyone is going to put on a sex show with Clyde, it's going to be Craig.

And it's not going to be Craig.

He turns away but only makes it a step closer to the door when Kenny floats words at him on an amused exhale: "Dude, what, don't be like that. Come on, come back here."

Craig's only response is to keep going.

"No, that won't work," Clyde says. "You have to beg him. Like this."

A couple of box springs protest movement on the bed, then there's a dull thud. Craig glances back to see Clyde has dropped to the floor and is crawling across it in a baseball jersey Craig recognizes and a pair of sweats he doesn't. Craig's feet hesitate enough for Clyde to look up; their eyes meet, and Clyde kneels up.

He keeps looking up, his lashes fluttering without closing in a full blink. Just a hint of tongue as he moistens his lips, gaze focused on Craig. "Please," Clyde says, his voice low, almost soft except for a rough trembling around the edges. He swallows, his chest rises and falls with a deeper breath. "Please," he breathes; "please stay." His shoulders go back as he puts his hands behind him, knees skating out as he spreads his legs. "I'll do anything." He tips his head back without breaking the gaze, exposing his throat as he swallows. "You can do anything you want to me, if you stay. You can do everything, Craig." He wets his lips again. "Please~" The desperate little undulation of his hips rolls up his torso as he arches, spreads his thighs wider, stretching the tight cotton blend even tighter against the outline of his needful cock.

Craig is getting hard, too. He does every time. He just never knew before that Clyde was faking it. He's always thought it was real when Clyde gets like this with him, for him. But if Clyde can turn it off and on so easily—Craig's gaze turns as hard as his cock.

Clyde flinches, breaks the gaze and gets to his feet.

"Fuck, dude, that—you..." Kenny trails off.

Clyde manages a glance at Kenny and offers him a half-smile before he turns away from both of them without looking at Craig. But not before Craig saw the way his smile trembled, just at the upturned corner.

Trembled when Clyde probably thought Craig couldn't see. Trembled for real, then.

Fuck. Clyde...

"Okay, so, I'm kind of crashing," Clyde says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think I'm gonna take off?" His voice goes up, but it's not a question and neither of them answer. He bends to pick up his jeans from the floor, then turns towards Kenny. His fingers pluck at the waistband of the sweats. "Hey, is it cool if I borrow these?"

"Yeah, go for it," Kenny says.

"Thanks, man." Clyde slings his jeans over his shoulder, which hitches as he tries furtively to gather himself. Craig tries to gather himself, too, but Clyde doesn't meet his eye when he says, "See you guys," and Craig can't tell whether he met Kenny's either.

It's the lack of sleep, probably, that is making Craig feel like this. Like he can't think fast enough to do anything, and even when he does think of something he's still too slow. He's stuck standing in the middle of Kenny's room when the door closes behind Clyde, and it's another moment after that before Craig finally starts towards the door.

"I don't think you want to do that, dude," Kenny says.

"What do you know?"

"You're going after him, right?"

"Yeah," Craig says.

Kenny shakes his head. "Your head's not on right, man. If you go now you're just going to fuck up with him again. And dude, I'm telling you this because I'm your friend; you know I am, so listen to me." He takes the cigarette he's just tapped out of a pack of American Spirits and sticks it in the corner of his mouth, the one that grinned at Craig earlier but isn't grinning now. The cigarette dangles with casual ease, unconcerned that it hasn't been lit. "If you fuck up with him one more time, I'm taking him away from you."

Craig's instinct is to call bullshit on Kenny. Even with the photos and finding them like that in Kenny's bed, even with the accusation he made about what Clyde was doing there, he's never considered the two of them a real possibility together. But he's looking at Kenny and Kenny is looking at him, and Kenny is fucking serious as Mysterion right now.

"You don't know everything about it," Craig says.

"I know what he tells me."

"Yeah, well, Clyde doesn't know everything, either."

Kenny doesn't say anything and Craig thinks that's going to be the last word. But then Kenny says, "You don't even know what you have." The way he says it, Craig can't tell if Kenny is talking to Craig or himself. Doesn't really matter, because Craig has nothing to say to that.

The cigarette tilts up as Kenny angles to light it, taking a long drag once he's got it going and exhaling through his nose. He looks at Craig as he holds it out. Craig feels like Kenny's going to jerk his hand away and laugh when he reaches for it, but Kenny holds still and lets it slide from between his fingers. Craig takes a couple of drags before he sits on the edge of the bed and passes it back wordlessly.

They smoke a second cigarette like this, and start a third. Kenny doesn't talk to him about Clyde as they smoke, which might be because Kenny thinks he already knows everything, even though Craig fucking told him he doesn't. Kenny might know more than Craig thinks he does, but he doesn't know _everything_. That would be impossible: Craig wasn't lying when he said Clyde doesn't know everything, and Clyde knows him better than almost anyone; definitely better than Kenny.

But what Craig didn't admit to Kenny was that maybe he doesn't know everything himself, either. He thought he did. He thought so up until Kenny stopped him from going after Clyde just now; until that moment, Craig hadn't realized he and Clyde were so close to breaking up, if that's what's happening. He knows he's been prickly lately, but he always is this time of year. He doesn't even remember what they got into it over, earlier, but maybe it really was more serious this time. It was serious enough for Clyde to think he needed those pictures of Kenny and him; not to make Craig jealous exactly, but to make him want to come over, so Clyde could beg him so fucking prettily in person.

"I have to stop treating him like that," he tells himself aloud, as if spoken words can make something more real.

"No," Kenny, who doesn't know everything but might know some things, says. "You just have to stop making him feel bad for liking the way you treat him."

They finish the cigarette in silence.

"Can I go now or what?" Craig asks when the bright embers have been ground out.

"I don't know, man. Can you?"

It's a smartass kind of thing to say and Kenny can be a real smartass when he wants, but there's nothing smartass in the way he's looking at Craig just now.

Craig looks away.

"Hey, here. Take this to him."

In his peripheral vision, Craig sees something being pushed across the mattress: Clyde's phone. Picking it up, Craig lets his feet take his weight as he slides off the bed. "Thanks."

"No problem, man."

Craig makes it as far as the bedroom door, even has it part-way open, when he stops. His thumb continues stroking back and forth over the screen of Clyde's phone, tucked in his pocket. "Hey, Kenny." Kenny looks up from the paperback he's holding one handed, front cover bent around to the back. "Thanks," Craig says. "Thank you."

"Craig, dude. Anytime, okay? Any fucking time."

Craig's mouth does something that probably isn't exactly a smile, but Kenny seems to know what it's supposed to be because he gives Craig a real grin back, his lips curving up evenly on both sides.

It's dark and unfamiliar in the hallway after he closes the door and Craig puts one hand on the wall to guide himself down it and through the house.

Outside it's better, the night clear and bright. He sits in the Focus for a minute, shivering as he waits for it warm up so he can start the heat, even though it's not really that cold; it's probably just the lack of sleep getting to him, his body reminding him he needs sleep even if he isn't tired.

He parks in the driveway when he gets to the Donovans'. He could go inside, but he stands under Clyde's window tossing handfuls of pebbles at it until Clyde comes and looks out. When Clyde disappears, Craig goes over to wait by the front door, which opens moments later. Clyde meets his eyes but doesn't say anything as he steps aside to let Craig in.

They don't talk as they go up to Clyde's room. It's as dark on the staircase as it was in Kenny's hallway. Clyde reaches back to take his hand and, even though Craig knows his way around this house with his eyes closed, he curls his fingers around Clyde's.

They're still mostly silent as they make their way down the hall, but something must give them away because as they pass Clyde's parents' bedroom, the door opens and Mr. Donovan sticks his head out. "Everything all right?" he whispers, adjusting his glasses.

"Yeah," Clyde says quietly. "Go back to sleep, Dad. Craig just forgot his key."

"All right then, son. You boys come knock if you need anything." With that, and a smile for both of them, Mr. Donovan closes the bedroom door.

Craig has only cried for real once in his life. This isn't going to be the second time. But the first time, Mr. Donovan was there. Mrs. Donovan, too.

When he was 13, Craig tried to leave home. He got as far as Nebraska before he ran into trouble. Serious trouble. Trouble he couldn't get out of on his own, and he wound up in police custody with no ID. Scared and messed up as he was, he wouldn't tell them his name. When they offered to let him call home, he couldn't bring himself to do it; he didn't know what to do, he couldn't think more than five seconds into the future because everything seemed hopeless and impossible. But he knew he had to do something so, without really thinking, he dialed the only other phone number he knew by heart. When Mrs. Donovan answered, he barely managed to get out, "Hello, it's Craig," before his mouth dried out and all his words evaporated and he let the handset drop to the floor. The policewoman picked it up when he didn't and explained who she was, where she was calling from, and that, "We have your son Craig here." Well, Craig figured, that was it. It was all over now.

But when she hung up the phone, the policewoman only said, "They're on their way to get you. You can stay here until they arrive."

Craig still wasn't sure what was going on because he was too scared to ask. He just kept to himself and only looked up when he heard a familiar voice, hours and hours later, say, "We're here to pick up our son Craig." It was Mr. Donovan, and Mrs. Donovan next to him; they'd driven straight through the night to get there.

They talked to the police for a while, then came over to get him. He didn't say anything and couldn't really look them in the eye as he followed them out to their car. He got in the back seat and only looked at them once they were on the highway. And all of a sudden, it hit him that things were going to be okay. He was going to be okay. Because of these two people right here, who came when he needed them and didn't ask him anything and didn't yell at him, didn't make him do anything he wasn't ready to, didn't tell him he never should have done what he'd done; they just came and got him, even though he was nothing to them, nothing but a friend of their real son. Nothing but another person in the world. He was a person to them.

Something welled up inside him so fast there wasn't time to stop it—he just had enough time to know it was coming and then it was bursting, breaking out of him, he was broken down and crying hard, making it worse when he tried to stop, choking on his own breath, gagging until he let go, let it all out.

The car slowed and pulled onto the shoulder, and for a terrifying moment Craig thought he'd become too much to deal with and they were going to abandon him on the side of the road. But all that happened when the door opened was that Mrs. Donovan got in back with him and put her hand on his knee, her other on his shoulder—and he didn't know what was wrong with him, but the next thing he knew he was pushing himself into her arms and she was letting him; she let him cry as much as he needed as Mr. Donovan started driving again, and when he finally started to calm, all she said was that she was going to make him meat loaf and mashed potatoes, which was Craig's favorite, when they got back to South Park.

He fell asleep with his head in her lap. Woke up hours later, head still in her lap, and even though he was embarrassed, he held still and pretended to be asleep so she'd keep stroking his hair like that. Later, he figured she'd probably known he was faking it, but she let him pretend until he was ready to sit up.

When he saw the "Welcome to South Park" sign, his stomach knotted up but it didn't make him cry or anything. He didn't say anything when they passed his street without turning but he did look at Mrs. Donovan to see if she realized her husband had made a mistake. She smiled at him. "Clyde likes his mashed potatoes lumpy with the skins on," she said, "but you tell me what you prefer."

He blinked. "That's fine, ma'am."

"Outstanding choice," Mr. Donovan said from the driver's seat. "The skins are loaded with vitamins."

"Yes, sir," Craig said, because he didn't know what else to say.

They didn't talk again until they got to the Donovans'. As soon as they got through the door, Clyde came bounding down the stairs, two at a time, and almost knocked Craig over with a hug. "Dude, you're back!"

"Now go easy on him, son," Mr. Donovan said. "Give him some breathing room there." Craig wanted to say the Donovans were really good huggers, the best he knew, and they didn't have to go easy on him; but Clyde was already taking a step back. "Boy doesn't know his own strength sometimes." Mr. Donovan tried to ruffle Clyde's hair and Clyde ducked away, but Craig could tell he secretly liked it when his dad did that.

"It's going to take me a little while to get the food ready," Mrs. Donovan said. "Craig, would you like to have a bath and maybe a nap while I'm cooking?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She gave him a smile before turning to Clyde. "Honey, why don't you go get Craig some fresh towels? And see if there's something of yours he can wear."

"Okay," Clyde said to his mom, and to Craig, "Come on, man."

Craig followed him upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed while Clyde rummaged around in his drawers. "You're way skinnier than me," Clyde said, patting his belly like he thought he was fat or something, which he wasn't—although it was true that Craig was skinnier. "But probably these'll work?" He held up a pair of black track pants with an elasticized waistband and a double white stripe down the side of the right leg. "I know, pretty ugly—but they're super comfortable." Craig put up a hand and Clyde tossed them into it. "This, too," Clyde said, shaking out a red t-shirt emblazoned with the South Park Middle School logo.

Craig met the cartoon cow's smiling, googly-eyed gaze before looking up at Clyde. "That's your favorite shirt."

"I know." Clyde shrugged. "But you can wear it, if you want. You can, like, put a sweatshirt over it or something."

"Okay." Craig thought he should probably thank Clyde, but Clyde was smiling like he didn't need it.

In the bathroom, Clyde got a couple of clean towels and a matching washcloth from the bamboo basket. "You can use my room if you want a nap. I'm gonna go see if Mom needs any help."

Craig nodded. Clyde looked like he wanted to hug him again, but then he just flashed another smile and closed the bathroom door as he left.

After what was probably the longest shower Craig had taken in his life, he meant to go down and see if he could help, too, but he only stood at the top of the stairs for a while. Finally he went to Clyde's room and, even though he didn't think he'd be able to sleep, lay down on the bed.

He jerked up, disoriented; it took a moment for his brain to process that he was at Clyde's house, that he'd crashed out after all, and that he'd been awakened by a knocking on the door.

Then the door opened and Clyde peered around the edge. "Hey man, did I wake you up?" He opened the door wider and took a step into the room. "Mom told me to let you sleep, if you want to. So..."

"No." Craig knuckle-rubbed his eye. "I'm up."

Half-way down the stairs, mingled aromas of the promised meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes drifted up to meet them. Craig's stomach rumbled loud enough for Clyde to turn and grin at him.

As soon as they were seated at the table, though, Craig didn't think he was going to be able to eat anything because the first thing Mr. Donovan said was, "I talked to your parents." Craig sucked in his breath and made himself not look down. "Told them we'd love to have you for a few days, if it was all right with them. That all right with you, son?"

Craig looked at Clyde to see if it was all right, but Clyde was looking at him; Mr. Donovan and Mrs. Donovan were, too. "Oh," he said, realizing he was the "son" Mr. Donovan meant. The knot in his stomach tightened, then unraveled. "Yes. Yes, sir."

"You're always so polite, Craig," Mrs. Donovan said, which was definitely not true but she was smiling like she wasn't being sarcastic. "It'll be so nice to have you around. Maybe Clyde will learn some good habits from you." She arched an eyebrow at Clyde, who was standing up and stretching for the bowl of mashed potatoes in the center of the table. "Such as asking to have something passed to you instead of reaching for it, not to mention waiting until grace has been said."

Blowing an exaggerated sigh out through his mouth, Clyde dropped back into his seat. Craig had eaten with them before and knew how they said grace, but he was still caught off-guard when Mrs. Donovan to his left and Clyde to his right held out their hands to him. Once Craig took them to complete the circle, Mr. Donovan offered thanks to the Lord for the food on the table and all the people around it, like usual. This time, though, when Mrs. Donovan and Clyde squeezed his hands, Craig felt like he was one of those people Mr. Donovan meant.

He was so hungry, he wound up having three helpings of everything, even the green beans. Clyde made a lame fat joke afterwards and Craig felt guilty for eating that much—but Mrs. Donovan just smiled and said nothing made her happier than when people enjoyed her food. "Now, who wants apple pie à la mode?"

Clyde got up to clear the table like usual, but Mrs. Donovan said, "Dad and I will get that. Why don't you and Craig go watch some TV or play one of your video games? I'll bring in the pie when it's ready."

"Wow," Clyde said as they went into the living room, "she must really like you!" Thankfully Craig didn't have to respond to that because Clyde followed up immediately with a list of games they could play. "Or TV?" Clyde offered when Craig didn't express enthusiasm about any of them. Craig sat in one of the chairs and Clyde sprawled out on the sofa, sitting up only when his mom brought in dessert and moving to the floor so his parents could have the sofa.

They watched an episode of some insane cake-making show, Clyde and his mom oohing and ahhing in appreciation at every turn. Mr. Donovan fell asleep during it, and Craig wondered if he'd slept at all since Craig had called. "Dad and I are going up to bed," Mrs. Donovan said to Clyde when the episode was over. "Can you make up the sofa bed for Craig when you boys are ready?"

"Craig can have my bed," Clyde said, eyes on the TV as he clicked through the channels. "I'll sleep in my Broncos sleeping bag on the floor."

Craig was about to protest that Clyde didn't have to do that, but Mrs. Donovan shook her head and gave Craig a conspiratorial wink. "Any excuse to use that sleeping bag. All right then," she said to both of them, "good night, sleep tight."

They stayed downstairs watching Cartoon Network until Clyde caught Craig dozing off and asked if he wanted to call it a night. Upstairs, he let Craig use the bathroom first and said Craig could use his toothbrush if it wasn't too gross to him. It would take a lot more than Clyde's used toothbrush to gross out Craig, so he shrugged and said okay.

He figured he'd be asleep before Clyde got back from his turn in the bathroom and Clyde probably thought that, too, because he hit the light switch when he left. As soon as it was dark, though, Craig found himself wide awake. He lay quietly anyhow, didn't say anything when Clyde came back. He tried to will himself to sleep for a while, but he couldn't do it. "Hey," he finally whispered, louder than necessary, "are you awake?"

Clyde made a snuffling sound, followed by, "Kind of." He sat up and reached for his desk lamp. They blinked at each other in the sudden light. "I just got the new Mario Bros."

"Okay." Craig moved over as Clyde turned to the desk again and palmed his DS, then climbed up on the bed to show off for Craig.

Sunlight was pushing against the curtains when there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Donovan opened it. "Mom—you have to knock first," Clyde protested drowsily, still waking up, still draped over Craig where he'd fallen asleep.

Mrs. Donovan smiled. "I did knock."

"But you have to wait for me to say 'come in'!"

"Well, since I'm here already—breakfast is almost ready. You boys come down before it starts to get cold."

"Okay, thanks, Mom." At the sound of the door closing, Clyde rolled onto his back, untangling himself from Craig, and yawned. "Sorry about that, man."

"Your mom?"

"No, using you as a pillow, dude." Clyde's grin was casual, like he didn't want it to be a big deal, but Craig saw the embarrassment hiding in the corners of it.

Craig shrugged like it was no big deal.

He stayed at the Donovans' that day, venturing out as far as their back yard and up the cottonwood he'd been climbing with Clyde since they were five. That night they wound up sleeping in Clyde's bed again, and again the night after, too.

Then it was time for Craig to go home. His dad came to get him but not his mom, and Craig thought they were going to have a man-to-man about what had happened. They didn't talk about Nebraska on the ride home, though. They didn't talk about Nebraska or him running away or anything. Eventually, from the things his parents were saying and not saying, Craig started to think Mr. and Mrs. Donovan hadn't told them about Nebraska, not about the police or anything; or maybe his parents did know and this was just going to be one of those things they didn't talk about.

The third night at home in his own bed, when he still couldn't sleep, he sneaked out of the house and walked to the Donovans'. He stood in their yard for a while when he got there, not sure what to do, and then he got the idea of throwing pebbles at Clyde's window like they do in old movies.

It took a few tries but Clyde finally came to the window. He opened it when he saw Craig. "Wait there," he whisper-shouted. "I'll be right down." A few long minutes later, he came out the door, untied shoelaces dragging with each step, one arm struggling to get through the strap of a bulging back pack. "I'm glad you came."

Brow furrowed, Craig looked at him.

Clyde looked back, then set his jaw stubbornly. "I'm coming with you. You can't stop me." When Craig still didn't say anything, Clyde said, "Aren't you running away again?"

"No," Craig said.

"Oh." Clyde stopped trying to get his arm through the backpack strap. They stood there, Clyde looking as awkward as Craig felt. Finally Clyde said, "Then, do you want to come in?"

Craig nodded.

As they were falling asleep in Clyde's bed, comfortably back-to-back, Craig couldn't help asking, "Why would you want to run away, when you have all this?"

"I don't, man. But I don't want you to be alone." After a moment, Clyde added, "You can laugh at me or punch me for that, but you asked. And I'm not gonna lie to you."

Craig didn't laugh and he didn't punch Clyde. He didn't do anything. After another silent minute, Clyde burrowed deeper under the covers, inadvertently pressing his spine against Craig's. Craig didn't move away.

He woke up just before sunrise and was careful not to wake anyone in the house as he sneaked out to walk back home before anyone there would be up. When they saw each other in school, Clyde didn't say anything about the way Craig had left and Craig thought maybe Clyde didn't remember or had written it off as a dream. But as they were walking to the bus, Clyde said, "See you tonight, man. If you want."

Craig did want. He wanted it a lot.

He thought he was getting away with it, sneaking over to Clyde's to sleep, sneaking back home again in the pre-dawn. If his parents knew what he was doing, they didn't say anything. Neither did the Donovans.

Then one time, after Craig and Clyde had finished studying for a social studies test, Mr. Donovan said he'd give Craig a ride home because it was too dark out to walk alone. When they got to the Tuckers', Mr. Donovan idled the motor and took an envelope out of his pocket. "Mrs. Donovan and I want you to have this, son. You use it whenever you want to, all right?"

At first Craig thought Mr. Donovan was trying to give him money and he tried not to take it, but Mr. Donovan said it would mean a lot to them if Craig would take it, and that he didn't have to use it if he didn't want to, but they would be happy if he did.

So Craig let Mr. Donovan put the envelope in the outer pocket of his backpack. He didn't take it out until he was in bed that night. It didn't feel like money, and when he opened the envelope he saw that it wasn't: it was a key. The key to the Donovans' front door.

Craig didn't cry then but he did curl up in his bed for a while. And a couple of hours later, when he arrived at Clyde's, he used that key for the first time.

He's used it a lot since then, but never after he and Clyde have had a fight. He always goes back to the pebbles then, like he did tonight. And Clyde always lets him in, like he did just now. Sometimes Craig thinks he fell for Clyde because of how much he loves Clyde's parents, but then he thinks of everything Clyde gave him in those first few days, everything Clyde has given him since, and he knows he would have fallen for Clyde, anyhow.

He looks at Clyde now. He wonders if Clyde knows just how hard and deeply Craig has fallen. They don't talk about that kind of thing but Clyde has to know, doesn't he? Even though Clyde's never used the words, Craig pretty much knows Clyde loves him. So Clyde must know, too. Craig thinks about telling him now, just to make sure, but the words won't come. So he gets off the bed and goes over to where Clyde is looking for something for Craig to wear. "Hey."

When Clyde turns to him, Craig steps closer and puts his hands on Clyde's hips. That's all it takes for Clyde wrap his arms around Craig and pull him in the rest of the way, closing that little bit of space that Craig never knows is between them until Clyde obliterates it like this. Craig puts his arms around Clyde, too. The Donovans are such fucking good huggers. Craig closes his eyes, bunching up the back of Clyde's pajama top in his fists.

"Hey, c'mon, c'mere." Clyde walks him over to the bed, sits with him on the edge. He studies Craig's face. "Are you okay, man? Did something happen with Kenny after I left?"

Craig wonders what he must look like, to make Clyde like this. Maybe he should've waited until tomorrow, until he wasn't so tired and _off_ -feeling. Maybe he should've listened when Kenny, who doesn't know everything but definitely knows some things, told him his head wasn't on right.

He shakes his head. "I mean, yeah, kind of—but nothing bad," he adds quickly when he sees Clyde's expression.

Clyde shifts his gaze from one of Craig's eyes to the other, searching him but not seeming to find what he's looking for because the furrow of his brow deepens. "I'll go over there right now and kick his ass if you need me to."

Craig tries not to smile, but one side of his mouth tugs up anyhow. "Don't do that," he says when he's straightened it out again. "Just, can we just sleep now?"

Clyde nods. "I'll get you some jammies."

"No need." Craig gets up to strip down to his briefs before slipping under the covers. The Donovans' house is always well-heated, besides which Clyde gives off heat like a furnace.

Clyde takes off his pajama top but leaves the bottoms on, then hits the light and crawls under the covers, too. They lie back-to-back, like they always do when they're just going to sleep.

Craig can't sleep, though, and he can hear in Clyde's breathing, feels in the curve of Clyde's spine where it touches his, that Clyde can't either. "Kenny said he was going to take you away from me."

"What?" The covers shift as Clyde rolls to face him.

"Yeah," Craig says, still facing away. "He said I don't know what I have in you." Now he rolls towards Clyde. The window is still exposed from when Clyde pulled back the curtain for Craig's pebbles and enough moonlight is filtering through that he can make out Clyde's expression, which right now is blank. "I think he was trying to imply you're a champion fucking thoroughbred or something. But you're not. I mean," Craig rethinks aloud, "you are—you're, like, if they gave out awards for, that stuff—you'd probably win." Craig is not exactly an authority on this: Clyde is the only one he's ever fucked, the only one who has ever sucked his cock and whose cock Craig has sucked, the only one who has ever offered his body to Craig, who has begged Craig for his touch, thanked him for every kiss and stroke and spurt of come, and meant it all.

Craig should probably shut up about it since he doesn't really know. He tries to get back on point. "But you're, like, more than that. You're a person." Heat rises to his face. He feels like he doesn't know what he's trying to say, and also like he can't stop saying it. "You're a person, man," he says again, helplessly.

Thankfully Clyde doesn't say anything. It would be okay with Craig if they just go to sleep now, or anyhow lie here both pretending to sleep.

Then Clyde says, "Is this about that thing I'm not allowed to ask about?"

Craig's throat swells shut. He nods.

After a moment Clyde says, "Just let me say this one thing, and then we never have to talk about it again, okay?"

Craig nods again. He does want to tell Clyde someday, but not yet; he can't yet. All he can do is nod and let Clyde say what he wants to. Clyde at least deserves that much.

Clyde doesn't say anything, though, and Craig thinks maybe he's waiting for more than a nod. But then Clyde takes a deep breath and says, "I know something happened in Nebraska. I don't know what it was, but I—I think maybe I can guess part of it." Craig tenses up, steeling himself to hear the words, Clyde's best guess.

Clyde doesn't guess, though. He takes another breath and says, "If something happened to you that made you feel not human anymore, that made you think you aren't—that's wrong, Craig. You're human. You are."

Craig knows this. He knows because five years ago, the two people who came together to make the kid he's lying in bed with right now, this beautiful kid he's filled and covered with his come so many times he's lost count: Craig knows he's human because five years ago, the Donovans made him so; they let him be so.

He snaps back to the present as Clyde says, "And if I. If being with me. Makes you feel—not human. Then I. I don't. We should—"

"Stop," Craig whispers.

Clyde nods.

"No, stupid—not us. Just, stop talking. Don't say that. Don't think that." Craig pushes up on his elbow, brushes the back of his fingers impatiently against his eyes. "I don't want you to think that, because it's not like that." He wipes at his face again, sitting all the way up. "I like being with you. I like the way you make me feel." He hopes Clyde can hear what he's really saying; someday he'll say it, but he just can't yet. He tries to read Clyde's expression to see if Clyde knows anyhow, but his vision is too blurry. The back of his fingers are too damp now to be useful so he tries using his palms, then gives up. "I like being human with you."

Craig doesn't know where he gets off calling Clyde stupid, when he's the one saying stuff like this.

But Clyde says, "I like being human with you, too."

Craig's soft bark of laughter is involuntary. Clyde's fingers tangle with his, asking him to lie down again without expecting or demanding anything. Craig obliges. "I like being myself with you," Clyde tells him when they've settled. "I like that you let me be like that. That you accept me. That you." Clyde hesitates and Craig thinks that if Clyde says the word "love," he'll confirm it. But when he goes on, Clyde says, "Want me, when I get like that."

He's probably going to say more, but Craig says, "I want you all the time, no matter what you're like. I want you right now, like this."

It comes out kind of wrong, or at least Clyde takes it different from how Craig meant it because after a moment he offers his mouth to be kissed, parts his legs for Craig to slide his own between them; Craig doesn't blame him for the misunderstanding and doesn't correct him because he's not actually wrong, not really. He fits them closer together and kisses Clyde, without tongue, with breath.

Clyde breathes deep, like he's still feeling the kiss; he said something like that to Craig once, that he could feel Craig's cock for days after they fucked the first time, and he still does sometimes when it's been especially good for him. Ever since Clyde told him that, Craig has kind of always wanted to kiss Clyde like that, so he'd still be feeling it long after it broke.

Maybe he will someday. This wasn't that kiss, though. Clyde takes another breath and seems to find his words from before. "And I like how I'm still human to you when I'm like that. That you see a person, where someone else might see," he shrugs, tries to smile, "something else."

Craig wants to tell Clyde that Kenny doesn't think Clyde is "something else," or maybe he does—but not in a bad way. In a good and deeply human way. What he winds up saying is, "We could try it some time, if you wanted. You and Kenny and me. I could make you suck his cock, if you wanted." He puts his palm against Clyde's cheek, flushes a little himself when he feels Clyde's skin warm. "Maybe I'll make him suck my cock just like you're sucking his, so I can tell if you're doing it right. Give you instructions to make it better." Clyde's skin heats up more under his hand. "Yeah," Craig murmurs, "I think we're definitely gonna do that." Clyde whimpers, and Craig rolls him onto his back, straddling him as he reaches for the bedside lamp so he can look at Clyde in the light; as their gazes tangle up in each other, Craig feels himself heat up under his skin. "You want to practice now?"

Clyde's lips part, only to slide together again as he swallows soundlessly.

"It's okay." Craig pushes Clyde's hair back from his face; and again when it falls forward on its own. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't want to."

Clyde's chest rises and falls with his breath as he looks up at Craig. "Please~"

Craig traces Clyde's lips with this thumb and Clyde parts them obediently, already breathing heavier. No one has ever wanted Craig the way Clyde does, and he doesn't see how anyone ever could; he knows he'll never want anyone the way he wants Clyde. "Let me see your tongue." Clyde opens wider, offers his tongue out with a deep sigh. Craig runs his fingertip lightly down the center of it. "What happened to the arrow?"

"I scrubbed it off." Clyde flushes. "I thought you didn't like it."

"I think I liked it a little too much." The corner of Craig's mouth curves down, but it's not a real frown and he can tell Clyde knows it by the way Clyde's mouth curves up.

"You could draw it back on. There's a Sharpie on my desk."

"Maybe I'll draw it with my come instead," Craig says.

"Craig~"

"You know I like the way you blush for me," Craig says, stroking along Clyde's cheekbone as he shifts off to settle on the mattress beside him. "But you better send some of your blood down to your cock, because I want to blow you tonight, man." Clyde makes a choked little sound as they look at each other. "Together, all right? And don't insult me by asking me if I'm sure."

Clyde bites his lip, then leans up for a kiss before he strips off his pajama bottoms. When he's done, he helps Craig out of his boxers, then lies on his back again and scoots down the mattress so Craig can straddle his head and stretch along his body, reaching for his cock.

They hardly ever do this and, despite what he said earlier, Craig knows the one who needs instruction in cocksucking is him, not Clyde. He has no technique, his mouth is eager for Clyde but anxious, the anxiety makes his tongue awkward, and there's no way he can open his throat the way Clyde does; but Clyde is moaning softly anyhow, getting hard and harder for him.

That doesn't mean anything about what Craig is doing, though, because Clyde always gets hard when he has Craig's cock in his mouth. Craig used to jerk him off while Clyde was sucking him so Clyde could get off, too, and one time he even used his bare foot when Clyde was kneeling on the floor between his legs; Clyde shot his wad almost immediately that time, then came off Craig's cock to ask if he could clean Craig up before he finished getting him off. Clyde's eyes had been so dark with want, his pupils blown. "Do it, then," Craig said, expecting Clyde to get up for a tissue or a towel or something—but Clyde dropped down and licked the come from Craig's toes, his forefoot, the ball of his foot. He stayed kneeling, head bowed, even when Craig tried to get him to come back up, and Craig wound up coming in his hair and down the arch of his neck.

Craig isn't that close now, although the memory is making his cock twitch and thrum in the wet, warm depths of Clyde's mouth. Clyde feels a lot closer. So close that, moments later, Craig feels Clyde's fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him off, letting go of Craig's hair to cover his own cock, protecting Craig from any splash as he comes.

Clyde's orgasm is still spilling from him when he turns his head, cradling Craig's cock along his jaw as he murmurs, "Thank you; thank you, Craig; oh god, thank you, man," and then moves to swallow Craig again as he says something else.

He's done that before, muffled his words with Craig's cock, and it took a while but Craig thinks he's figured out not only that they're the same words every time but also what they are. He slips out of Clyde's grasp, uninterested in his own orgasm, fine going soft without it as he shifts to sit on the mattress and faces Clyde. "Say it."

Clyde looks caught out. He opens his mouth but doesn't say what Craig wants him to, or anything else for that matter. At least as he pushes up on his elbows, he doesn't ask what Craig wants him to say, doesn't pretend he doesn't know.

"Say it," Craig says again. This time he adds, "Please." Clyde isn't looking at him anymore. "I just need to hear it, man," Craig says. "I know it's not fair. I'm a fucking hypocrite for needing to hear it when I can't say it, for needing you to tell me something when I can't tell you anything. I just."

He just wants to hear it, to really believe it.

A breath puffs out of Clyde. "I'm not gonna say it like this."

His voice sounds strained in a very familiar way. "Don't cry," Craig says. "You don't have to say it."

"I'll say it if I want, and I'll cry if I want." Clyde sits up, jaw sliding off-center the way it did that night he was ready to leave behind everything just so Craig wouldn't have to be alone. It's Craig's favorite thing Clyde does with his mouth, though he's never told Clyde and doesn't even think Clyde knows he does it. "I'm just not going to say it while you're all the way the fuck over there."

Craig slides into his lap.

Their gazes tangle when Clyde looks up. They look at each other like that, all tangled up in each other, for what feels like a long time, and Craig is thinking it's okay for there not to be words after all when there are looks like this, and then Clyde says, "I love you. Okay?"

They stay tangled up in gaze, cradled in it.

Craig nods. He sinks down to the mattress, curves his spine so it touches Clyde's when Clyde lies down, too. He lies in Clyde's bed, too tired to sleep, listening to Clyde breathe.

Then Clyde starts to hum. It takes Craig a moment to place it.

When they were twelve, Clyde somehow talked Craig into doing the talent show with him. To this day Craig doesn't know for sure, but he thinks the idea came from Clyde's lingering regret that they hadn't been in Moop or Faith+1 or a band of their own. So he came up with the idea that they should perform as "the two greatest singer-songwriters ever: John Lennon and Elton John!" Craig was John and Clyde was Elton, and they performed a rendition of "Whatever Gets You Through the Night," complete in outfits made by Clyde's mom. They rehearsed for weeks. At the talent show, Craig talk-sang his part and Clyde was enthusiastically out of tune, and it all should have been unforgivably embarrassing—except that Craig wasn't in the habit of getting embarrassed and Clyde had stupid amounts of fun. He had so much fun, he got Craig to trick-or-treat with him that year as John and Elton. They reprised their talent show performance at every house that would let them, as if they were Halloween carolers who only knew one song. That was the last time they ever went trick-or-treating.

It's kind of their song, Craig guesses.

He listens as Clyde's humming approaches the chorus, and talk-sings along in his head:

_"Whatever gets you through the night, it's all right, it's all right. Whatever gets you through your life, it's all right, it's all right..."_

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by two kind of amazing and completely unrelated fanarts by [Soltian](http://soltian.tumblr.com): the one seen at the beginning, and [this one](http://s3.amazonaws.com/data.tumblr.com/tumblr_ltv5uimblT1r2uvcxo1_1280.jpg) (NSFW; something like this is probably what happened in Nebraska).


End file.
